


Off With his Shirt

by TheRealDanniX



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Or Several, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRealDanniX/pseuds/TheRealDanniX
Summary: “Throw him in the dungeon!”“Give him to the otter!”“Well, we have to settle the score,” the queen chuckles as she moves towards Geralt. The music picks up a little bit. “What do we think is fair? What shall we do?” The crowd knows the response to that.“Off with his shirt!”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 201





	Off With his Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> I had no intention of writing this.   
> But it was a rough day.  
> and Tumblr ambushed me.  
> And I couldn't sleep
> 
> So now you get this. Based off the song "Off With His Shirt" from Galavant.   
> Obviously, it is crack.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy it!   
> Drop a kudos or a comment to let me know what you think!  
> It's always great to hear from y'all <3

It’s three years after the mountain. Ciri is safe with Yennefer during the spring and summer months, and Geralt is back on the path all alone. He’s looking for his bard. Has been every chance he got. Unfortunately, he thinks his luck has finally run out. He took a contract for drowners, just to get enough coin to keep looking. Except it wasn’t drowners. He has no idea what the fuck this creature is, and he doubts he’ll get the chance to find out as it slams him down against the lakebed. He’s bleeding from a large gash on his stomach and another one on his thigh. His sword was lost a while ago. He doesn’t have enough energy to cast a sign. This is it. This is the end of the line. He was just too slow. His vision fades to black.

He did not expect to wake up at all, so it is more than shocking to wake up bandaged and resting on a comfortable bed. His stomach aches a bit but seems mostly healed. The cut on his thigh is gone completely. As Geralt gets his bearings, he can see his armor carefully set in the corner of the room, clean and mended. Beside it are his packs. Both of his swords are under the bed, easily grabbable if someone were to ambush him. He’s in clean clothes and he can smell the lavender oil that someone has run through his hair. There, but not offensive. It seems that whoever helped him, knows him. That thought makes his stomach drop. No one else could have gotten close enough to Roach to get his pack. Fuck. He goes for the door, somewhat surprised to find it locked. Fine. If Jaskier wants him to stay in, he will. He takes his swords out to care for them, despite the fact that they were clearly cared for already. Hours later, after the little light that came in through the window was gone, the door opens. A beautiful woman stands in the doorway, flanked on either side by burly, shirtless men. She stares at him with familiar blue eyes. She looks young and human save for the raven-like wings that rest at her back. He knows she’s a fae the second he sees her. What he doesn’t understand is why she also looks like Jaskier.

“Hello, Witcher,” she says. She smiles at him, flashing inhuman fangs. “You are lucky that my son cares for you or I would have let the beast devour you. You have him to thank for your care thus far. But now, you are in mine.” Her eyes darken. “Follow me. Leave the swords if you want Julian to maintain his freedom.” Geralt feels a vague memory pull at him. Something about Jaskier’s other name. The one he doesn’t use. It’s enough to keep the Witcher from pulling his blade. It’s also enough to pique his interest. He follows the fierce woman from the room. The guards follow him. They are all silent as he is led into what appears to be a throne room. Several people are playing music but stop upon their arrival. All of the people in the room bow to the fae in front of him. More burly, shirtless guards are flanking the empty throne. She holds up her hand, stopping Geralt’s movement as she goes to sit. The two men stay behind him. Then she fixes those blue eyes on him. “Tell me, Witcher, would you like to see my son?” Geralt nods, unwilling to speak. Unsure of what might happen. The fae’s eyes glint. “That’s quite a change from the last time you saw him. We’ve all heard the story. How you broke his heart. How you sent him away. Are you sure you want to see him?” She speaks with her body as much as her mouth, waving her arms and tilting her head. Putting on a show. Geralt nods again, now sure that her son is Jaskier. Another conversation he needs to have with the bard. “All right then. Julian!” She sings his name, and it drifts through the air like a spell. He feels his medallion vibrate under his shirt.

A moment later, another fae lands in front of Geralt, beside the throne. Even without his usual glamour, Geralt knows him instantly. His brown hair and deceptively broad shoulders. Even his fucking posture. It had always seemed odd before, always drawing attention to him, but with the wings, it’s impossible to look away. Because Jaskier’s wings are beautiful. A darker color than his mother’s but dotted with hints of colors in the smaller feathers. Cornflower blue eyes flash briefly in Geralt’s direction before Jaskier bows to his mother. “Mother, you called?” Jaskier’s voice sends a jolt down the Witcher’s spine that he struggles to hide. He had no idea how much he missed that voice until he heard it again.

“I did. Join me.” She gestures to her side, smiling down at him. Geralt tenses as Jaskier obeys. He hasn’t forgotten the threat this woman made against his bard just moments earlier. “Now, Witcher, I believe you are in our debt. Not only have you been allowed to heal in my kingdom, but you hurt my son.” Her kingdom. She’s the fucking fairy queen. Which makes Jaskier a prince. What the fuck? “What shall his punishment be?” The smirk on her face is mischievous. She gestures to a group of fairies with instruments, and they start to play. The other fae gather closer, knowing what she’s doing. Jaskier knows too if his wide eyes and flushed face are anything to go by. “I’m open to suggestions!” she calls out, rising from her chair.

“Throw him in the dungeon!” Someone yells. Jaskier almost relaxes at that.

“Give him to the otter!” Another chimes in. That makes the bard’s flush deepen, turning the tips of his ears bright red. Geralt doesn’t know exactly what that means, but it can’t be good.

“Well, we have to settle the score,” the queen chuckles as she moves towards Geralt. The music picks up a little bit. “What do we think is fair?” She casts her eyes around the crowd, close enough to rest her hand on the Witcher’s chest. He tries to jerk back, but he can’t move. His medallion vibrates, warning him too late that a spell is in the air. “What shall we do?” The crowd knows the response to that.

“Off with his shirt!” they yell. Ice shoots through his veins. Clearly this is a game she plays with humans who wander into her court. Chaos thrums against his skin as she moves around him in a circle. The crowd cheers as she runs a thin finger across his shoulders.

“Julian,” she calls. “He’s your Witcher. Your responsibility.” She leans against Geralt, beckoning Jaskier closer. “And such a _fine_ responsibility _._ What do we say?” The music swirls as Jaskier stumbles forward.

“Off with his shirt!” the crowd calls again. The queen steps away, making space for Jaskier.

“Strip him bare,” the queen hisses. “Off with his shirt.” Jaskier hesitates, his face getting impossibly redder when he looks at Geralt. “ _Julian_.” There’s a magic in the name this time, and Jaskier’s eyes get wide. “Off with his shirt.” His movements are only slightly jerky when the bard grasps the hem of Geralt’s shirt and tugs it off. He discards it as soon as it’s off, the whole room cheers louder than ever. Jaskier looks horrified.

“Given him to the otter!” someone yells. Others join in and soon the whole room is chanting Otter. The Queen cackles.

“To the Otter then!” She raises her arms and points at Geralt. Suddenly, the throne room is gone, replaced by a large bedroom. He and Jaskier stand in the center of the room just staring at each other. The magic that held him in place is gone, but he can’t seem to bring himself to move or speak. Thankfully, the bard is already in motion. He turns and dives at the opulent bed, hiding his face. After a moment, he sits up and looks at Geralt, mortified.

“Geralt, I am so sorry about that.” His blue eyes are wide, and his face is still a delightful shade of red. “I tried to make sure she wouldn’t have any power over you, but there’s only so much I can do here. And she would let me near you after you were mostly healed. I’m sure you would rather I left you with Roach after I pulled you out of that damn swamp, but we were too close to her court. She has my damn name and she pulled me in and forced me to bring you with me. Gods, Geralt, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve any of my mother’s insane games. She does this with every soldier or warrior type that stumbles into her court. That’s how she’s gotten most of her guards. I promise I’ll get you out of here as soon as I can.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to react. He wants to stop Jaskier from apologizing. He wants to apologize himself. He wants to take the bard in his arms and calm him. He wants to run away. But he needs to get answers. To get out. To escape. So that he can apologize. “You’re fae,” he manages.

Jaskier sighs, tilting his head a bit. “Yes, Geralt. I’m fae. You know that.”

Geralt frowns. “I know now.”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to frown. “You mean to tell me that in all of our time traveling, you never once realized that I was fae? It didn’t occur to you at all. You once told me you could smell what I’d had for breakfast two days before, yet you couldn’t tell that I am fae? Really, Geralt. I thought your Witchers could sense things like that. It’s not like I tried too hard to hide it. Glamour aside of course.” It certainly explains somethings, but Geralt shakes his head no. “When we get out of here, we are discussing this at length,” Jaskier warns. “For now, my dear Witcher, if you’ll give me a moment, I believe I can get us to the room you woke up in and you can retrieve your swords and armor and whatnot.”

“Jaskier, why are you helping me?” Geralt says though it comes out sounding like a growl.

“You mean after your outburst on the mountain?” Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Because I know you, Geralt. You were an absolute arse on that mountain, but you were hurting. I can understand that. That’s not to say I don’t expect an apology eventually, mind you. Just because you were hurting doesn’t mean I deserved to deal with your crap. But, if you think I would let you drown or leave you at the mercy of my mother just because I’m mad at you, then you clearly have not been paying attention. Once we are out of here, we are having so many conversations.” Jaskier stands and takes one of Geralt’s hands. The Witcher lets him, staring at the bard in confusion. There was another burst of magic that took them back to the simpler room that Geralt had woken up in.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks again.

Jaskier sighs, releasing his grip on Geralt’s hand. “Because I love you, you big oaf. Now get your damn armor on so we can get out of this realm.” Jaskier moves to grab the pack, but Geralt grabs his wrist and pulls the fae back against him. Careful of the wings, he wraps his bard in a hug pressing their foreheads together. Belatedly, he realizes he’s still not wearing a shirt, but that doesn’t matter much. “Geralt?” Jaskier breaths. They have so much to talk about. So very much, but Geralt doesn’t care at that moment. He takes Jaskier’s lips against his own. The bard makes a startled noise but quickly relaxes into the kiss, returning it. When they break apart, they’re standing in a clearing. Roach huffs a bit from beside a neat pile of Geralt’s stuff. A single raven feather rests on top of it. Geralt ignores all of this in favor of the bard in his arms. Jaskier looks at him, pupils blown wide, chewing on his lip. He smells of desire and the Witcher is ready to give him exactly what he wants.

“Off with his shirt,” he growls.


End file.
